


Come Along And Find Me (Where I Can Go Home)

by luninosity



Series: McFassy Mistletoe Fluff [2]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: First Time, Fluff, Holidays, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Mistletoe, Recuperating!James, Sex, Sexual Content, Unexpected Proposals, protective!Michael
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2012-12-10
Packaged: 2017-11-20 20:06:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A week before Christmas. James gets to go back to work post-accident, Michael worries a lot, and then there is very tender first-time sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Along And Find Me (Where I Can Go Home)

**Author's Note:**

> Very cuddly and tender first-time sex! Title and opening lines from Eve 6’s “At Least We’re Dreaming”.

_at least we’re breathing_  
 _at least we’re alive_  
 _as long as we’re dreaming_  
 _everything’s gonna be all right_

Michael’d always liked mornings. Specifically, crisp, cold, wintery mornings. The kind of mornings that proclaimed, definitively, to every sense, that the world was here, awake and alert and _alive_ , early sunbeams breaking through the arctic glass of the world with complete clarity.

He couldn’t make himself like this morning, though.

Not all the friendly chilliness of the air could make this—could make James, standing there with script pages in his hand, pages that demanded his presence on set—all right. Not even if James himself didn’t mind.

“It’s all right,” James was saying, looking at him earnestly. “Really. I’m fine, and this isn’t that bad, look, I even get to spend the morning in a wheelchair—”

“It’s been a week. One week. You are _not_ fine.”

“I’m—” James ran a hand through his hair, making rumpled strands pop out in all directions. “Okay, I’m not entirely, one hundred percent, absolutely fine, but I can certainly sit in a wheelchair all morning and deliver lines. And you heard Matthew on the phone; it’s almost Christmas, and we’re behind schedule, and he’s worried—”

“James,” Michael said, helplessly, “ _I’m_ worried. About you.”

“I know.” James sat down on the bed, and looked at him expectantly; Michael swallowed, and came over to sit beside him. James reached out and took his hand, and smiled, and Michael’s heart did a silly little flip, inside his chest.

Only one week, he thought. Just one week, since he’d almost lost James, since the stupid accident that might’ve, but hadn’t, ripped a hole through the world. One week since he’d realized just how much he had to lose.

He’d been sleeping next to James for a week, the two of them curled up in the king-sized hotel bed, no sex and nothing beyond lingering superheated kisses because he’d been too afraid to try anything else, just learning each other’s warmth in the dark, the way that James always ended up wrapped in every single blanket, and the discovery that Michael was a very determined cuddler in his sleep, needing arms and legs tangled up around James at all hours of the night.

He’d never known that, about himself. Of course, he’d never felt this way about anyone else, ever, either.

He looked at James, sitting there on the side of the bed, one sock-clad foot tucked up under the other leg for warmth. All that exuberant hair fell into his eyes, bright against the cool grey morning and the untidy snowdrifts of the hotel sheets, and Michael wondered, not for the first time, how he’d been so incredibly oblivious for so long, because James, smiling at him like that, was everything he’d ever wanted, and everything he’d never known he wanted, and everything he’d always want for all the days and weeks and years to come.

“I love you,” James said, quietly. “I do. And I know you’re concerned. But it’ll be all right. I’ll be careful. Okay?”

“I love you too,” Michael whispered back, and squeezed the hand in his. Those fingertips felt a little too cold, bitten by the ice in the air; he folded them up in his own and tried to keep them safe. “I’m sorry. I know you’re all right. Mostly. I just—you don’t know what that was like. I couldn’t wake you up, and you were—I could feel your blood on my hands. Even after. And I—I can’t do that again, okay? Please.”

James studied him for a minute, eyes serious, all those jewel-shaded depths calm and sincere when they rested on his face. “I am sorry I scared you, you know. And—” Michael started to interrupt, to protest, and James kept talking. “I know it was an accident, and not anybody’s fault, not really. But I’m still sorry; I know how I’d feel, if it’d been you, and I can’t even imagine that—what you just said. Feeling—well. I am all right, though. I can do this. And I promise I’ll stop, if I get tired. As soon as I get tired. Does that help?”

“Um… _before_ you get tired. The second you even think you might be tired, maybe, at some point in the future.”

And James laughed, and kissed him, lips warm and dry and firm as commitment. “All right.”

The morning, despite all his unrelieved apprehension, started off well. The atmosphere of concern on the set, when James walked in, was tangible; the entire unoccupied half of the crew tried to hug him, or grab and shake the closest free hand, and he could barely take a step without someone asking whether he needed anything, from a chair to coffee to fried chicken.

They’d both stared at Kevin, at that one. Kevin had just shrugged. “I figured everyone else had the basics covered. And maybe you wanted chicken.”

James had actually said thank you, which was two words more than Michael could’ve managed without laughing, and then another swarm of protective bodies had descended to walk them over to the costume department. Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, they hadn’t seen Kevin since; Michael’d found himself pondering the likelihood that they might start receiving random chicken deliveries at all hours of the night, but figured that he could deal with that, if it happened, and so didn’t bother mentioning these suspicions to James.

Exasperatingly, while James got to be pushed around in his wheelchair outside the mansion, Michael had been trapped inside, filming Erik’s bedroom scene with Jennifer, and, briefly, Rebecca Romijn, who had smiled at him in a way that suggested an invitation, and then had looked at him with some disappointment at the lack of response. He’d tried to protest the separation, and had been outvoted by Matthew, citing time demands, and James himself, on the grounds that he was starting to feel smothered by the universe and Michael in particular. Which, he’d begrudgingly had to admit, might be a justified complaint.

So he’d obediently gone off inside, and counted minutes in his head, and taken refuge in the fact that Erik needed to be taciturn and angry in any case and so everyone would just think it was extremely committed acting, on his part. In theory, at least.

Eventually, though, at last, he was done. And he could go find James.

He said goodbye to Rebecca as politely as he could—he did like her, after all, it wasn’t her fault that she wasn’t James—and then ran down the stairs, and out the door, and stopped, and for a minute just waited there watching the scene, or rather the aftermath of the scene, since they were done, too, just Rose spinning James around for fun now, across the green grass under the bright sunshine, both of them chattering away about something and looking happily, healthily, marvelously entertained.

And James said something that Michael couldn’t quite hear, and then twisted around to look up at her, both hands demonstrating some sort of complex gesture, and Rose started laughing, so hard she lost her grip on the handrails of the wheelchair.

Which promptly veered itself off course and in the direction of the closest rock.

James had just enough time to look surprised before he, and the chair, both toppled over.

Michael, horrified, stood there in the doorway and watched the collapse in slow motion, knowing that he was too far away to help, too distant to do anything, and unable even to breathe.

By the time he made it out onto the lawn, James had already disentangled himself from the chair and was lying casually on the grass, saying cheerfully to Rose, “no, I’m fine, it’s fine, really, look, it was completely my fault, I shouldn’t’ve made you laugh, how about I promise never to try to make you laugh ever again,” which of course prompted her to giggle, even through all the shocked concern.

Michael, on the other hand, was not in the mood to be sympathetic to the mutual amusement. “What the hell happened?”

James glanced at his face, and then visibly decided to jump in before any bodily harm could take place. “It was my fault, honestly. Not taking it seriously…”

“You almost dying in my arms is fucking serious, James!”

“I didn’t—” James sighed. “Rose, can I have a minute with my—with him? Please? Thank you—look, I _am_ fine, it didn’t hurt, I can sit up and everything—”

“Don’t sit up!”

“See? Fine.”

“Christ, James.” He put one arm around compact shoulders for support, anyway; James eyed his expression, and then, very obviously, opted to accept the help without saying anything. The sunlight, venturing carefully through the clouds above, fell down over both of them in honey-colored approval.

“How’s your head? You’re not—”

“No, I’m not dizzy, or anything else. I promise.” James smiled at him, through all the sunshine. Michael smiled back, even though it probably looked more like a grimace. “And the stitches are all right too. Help me up?”

He did. Got them both to their feet, and then just stood there, under the unprotesting sunbeams, while his arms refused to let go.

At this point, Matthew turned up, far too belatedly to Michael’s current way of thinking. “James, are you—”

“Really,” James said, somewhat plaintively, “I’m _fine_ ,” and Matthew nodded, looked over at Michael, and then suggested that they spend the afternoon filming conversations and chess matches instead, so that James could curl up into an overstuffed armchair for the rest of the day.

Frustratingly, of course, that rest of the day ended up taking longer than anyone expected; the lighting felt too dim, the artwork on the walls was crooked, and then one of the cameras inexplicably stopped working, and Matthew began looking as if he’d like to murder the entire world. And Michael wanted to agree, because James—

James had begun looking more tired, as the afternoon wore on. Almost unnoticeably, at first. But then the lines got a little quieter, the brushed-velvet texture of that voice a hint more faded and worn, and Michael was nearly ready to declare a mutiny and forcibly carry James back to the hotel when Matthew sighed and said “Okay, I think we’ve got it, you can go now.” 

Thank god. James might not’ve forgiven him, if he’d actually gone through with that plan. He’d been incredibly tempted, though. James would never know how close he’d come to having a fairytale-heroine exit, and that, Michael decided, was no doubt a very good thing.

Now, though, they’d made it back to the sanctuary of the hotel, at last. Back to their room, a phrase he was still getting used to putting together in his head: _their_ room, not James’s room. Actually, in practical terms, that transition had been astoundingly easy; he suspected that it was because any room that James walked into took notice of that fact, and went out of its way to feel like home.

He watched James wander over to the bed, but didn’t follow, not immediately: from a few steps away, he could check more easily for any signs of hesitation or unrecognized soreness. He didn’t think James had been hurt, earlier, but those movements, usually so uncalculatedly graceful, seemed a little slow, at the moment.

James had needed two attempts to hit the light switch, when they’d first walked in. And that wasn’t right, he thought. Maybe it’d just been random; everyone had awkward moments, of course. But maybe not.

The light spilled across the open space, casting all the furniture, the wrinkled sheets, even the blank screen of the television, in shades of topaz. It chased the shadows away, out of the dark corners of the hotel room, and nevertheless did nothing for Michael’s peace of mind.

James let himself fall back across the unmade bed, and shut his eyes, and didn’t move. Michael felt the world lurch, momentarily, beneath his feet. “James? Are you all right?”

“Yes…”

“That’s not very convincing.” He forced his feet into motion, even though they seemed to have grown stubborn roots. Picked his way across the quicksand of the carpet to the bed, and sat down, carefully, in the puddle of sheets next to James, who propped himself up on both elbows, in order to gaze back.

“Don’t sit up. Please. Not if you’re in pain.”

“I’m not.”

“You look—”

“Only more tired than I thought. Not in pain. I promise.” James smiled at him. Michael kind of wanted to cry. Instead, he reached over and took the closest hand, playing with those eloquent fingers, distracting himself with the feeling of warm skin and the reassuring rhythm of the pulse against his thumb.

“You would tell me, though? If you were.”

“Yes, I would. But I’m just tired. It was—well, no, I suppose it wasn’t a long day. Not really. But anyway. Honestly. Nothing hurts.”

“Not even—”

“Nothing. Come here.”

He did as instructed. Stretched out, on the friendly sheets, beside James, side by side, solid presence next to solid presence. James grinned, and Michael rested a hand on his stomach, over the fuzzy brown wool that he was ninety-nine percent certain was one of Charles’s sweaters. “Sorry about earlier. I shouldn’t’ve yelled at Rose. Or at you.”

“We can apologize tomorrow. And you were right, sort of. I was just happy to be doing things, again; I might’ve been too unserious about it. Is unserious a word? It sounds like it ought to be.”

“I…don’t know. It can be a word if you want it to be. And you were right, too. You were fine.”

“And still am.”

At that, Michael walked his hand to the bottom of the fluffy sweater, nudging it up, cautiously. All that skin felt comfortably, but not overly, hot, to his touch; and James didn’t move, or even flinch, at the explorations. “Can I see?”

James blinked, a little surprised, but understanding. “Of course you can.” And then lifted his arms and let Michael peel off the sweater, gently.

Today’s bandage still covered up all the stitches, but nevertheless impressively failed to disguise the injury itself. In theory the fabric was skin-colored; no one in the world had skin that color, of course, but somehow the pitiful attempt clashed even more blatantly with the expanse of pale stomach, uncaringly interrupting swirls of red-gold freckles at play.

James lay back on the bed, and let Michael brush fingertips along the edges of that disruptive patchwork job, imagining the row of black threads underneath, blasphemous against fragile skin. “Does this hurt?”

“No.”

The corner of the bandage extended slightly below those comfortably loose jeans; Michael ran a finger along the waist, lightly.

“You can take those off, too.”

“You won’t be cold?”

“You can keep me warm.”

All at once the atmosphere in the room changed. Still quiet, still dreamlike. But breathless, now, too. Full of anticipation. Potential. Even the pillows were listening.

James looked at him, and smiled. “So…do I need to woo you with mistletoe, again? Or do you want to kiss me now?”

“It is almost Christmas, right? Maybe I should demand the mistletoe.” But he leaned down to kiss James anyway, under the approving wash of yellow table lamps. The light caught in all that curling hair, and lured him in closer; he threaded a hand through it, playing with strands when they threatened to leap into blue eyes. James made a contented little sound, and tipped his head up into the caress.

“I do like Christmas. Lights, decorations, cookies…happy people…presents…oh, I still need to get you something!”

“You already did.” He actually winced when he heard himself say that out loud: could he have come up with anything more cliché? But it was true, regardless, of course.

Because they were still within reach, he kissed those cheerful lips one more time, tasting chapstick, as usual—he’d made sure to put an extra one in his pocket, that morning—but also warmth, comfort, vitality like a heartbeat: James was here, and alive, and not lying silent in a hospital bed, or bleeding through the cold protection of his superhero costume, or any of the terrifying other possibilities that they had, miraculously, avoided, the thoughts that sometimes kept him awake at night, after James had fallen asleep, listening to each inhale and exhale.

It’d taken several days for the bruise to fade, the one that’d painted frightening rainbows of color over the edge of one cheekbone and up into all the hair, viciously festive reminders of James saying, as apologetic as only James would be at that moment, _I think I might feel dizzy now, I’m sorry_ …and those normally-eloquent fingers going limp, in his own.

He’d spent every one of those days just being grateful. And then promising himself that he would never let anything happen to James, ever again. It’d taken him too fucking long to figure out how much he had to lose; he’d wasted too much time already, and now he was prepared to hold onto James forever, as tightly as he could, and never take any of that time for granted.

“I did not—oh, did you mean all the mistletoe? Because that wasn’t supposed to be a present. I was just trying to get you to notice me. Or maybe kiss me, just once. Or—”

“I want to kiss you always. And I’m sorry about that. Again. And no, that’s not what I meant.”

“Hmm. Did you mean this, then?”

“What—” That question got cut off, because James had sat up, put both arms around him, and then kissed him, firmly, and with extremely unsubtle intent. Michael, torn between the instinctive need to keep him from anything that might hurt, and the sudden presence of very distracting tongue and teeth— and hands, oh god, James had snuck both hands up under his shirt and was running them along his back—pulled himself away long enough to say, not as authoritatively as he wanted to, “You. Lie back down.”

“Absolutely yes.”

“No! I mean…you said you were tired. And I don’t want—”

“Not too tired for this.” The hands wandered around to his chest. Fingers played with one nipple, which apparently had a direct line to his brain, because he forgot how to answer, for a second.

“Michael?”

James was looking up at him. James wanted this. James was all right. Not in pain anywhere. Initiating certain interesting activities, even. And he just didn’t have the ability to resist now, not when he’d been virtuously resisting all week, not when those ocean-blue eyes were fixed on his, expectantly.

So he’d just have to be very careful. He could do that, for James. For both of them. “You did say—how tired are you? Exactly?”

“Exactly not too tired for what you’re thinking now.”

“Oh, really? You know what I’m thinking, now?”

“Yes. Because I can do that. I have telepathic powers, you know.” James wiggled all ten fingers at him, presumably in some sort of clairvoyant hand gesture. The golden light danced over each one, considerately outlining every motion. “See?”

“No.”

“Oh, you’re no fun at all.”

“Really? Is this not fun, then?” He captured one of the teasing fingers with his own. Contemplated it for long enough to make James raise both eyebrows at him, and then, very slowly, put it in his mouth. Employed lips, and suction, and tongue, licking all the way down to the base, to the delicate lines where fingers curved into palm. Felt the entire hand shake, at that demonstration of previously mentioned thoughts.

“Michael…”

“Not fun at all, you said. So this isn’t fun, either.” This time he used teeth, as well, just enough pressure to make James gasp.

“That’s…ah…very much fun. I take it back. You’re the definition of fun. The absolute epitome of fun. The—”

“Are you still talking? Because I can do more things.”

“Will those also be fun?”

God, he hoped so. For James, anyway; he _knew_ the answer was yes, for himself. “I…think you might enjoy yourself, yes.”

“Oh, good.”

Michael laughed, at that unabashedly eager tone; moved his hands, finally, back to all the fascinating skin, at the spot where already-loose jeans waited for him to take that next step. The lamplight followed, splashing shadows out behind his fingertips, as if it wanted to see, too.

“So…” He hesitated, fingers settled on the closest hip. “You have—I mean, you’ve done this before, right? You’re not—”

James blushed, at that, color tinting all the bright freckles with a hint of pink shyness. “Um…yes. Not a lot, though. And not for a while. You?”

“You know I have.” He’d told James about each one of those encounters, one painfully late and alcohol-fueled night. Had, now that he thought about it, described his appreciation for said encounters in probably too much intoxicated detail. And James had laughed, at the time, and glanced away, and requested another round of martinis.

“Did I ever apologize for that, by the way?”

“For what? For having slept with other people? If that’s a problem, we both have some explaining to do.” James stopped talking. Bit his lip. “Or _is_ that a problem? Me, I mean. Not being all that experienced at this. Do you not want—”

“No! I mean yes, I do! I mean, I want you. And I don’t care how many people you have or haven’t slept with. Except…” He leaned over to kiss that lip, where James had been nibbling on it. “I do want this to be good for you, you know.”

“I know. And it will be. Don’t worry. What were you apologizing for, then?”

“Um. For all the—I told you everything. About all the other people. And I never knew you wanted—I’m very stupid. I’m so sorry.”

“You are not.” That smile came back, spilling sunlight up into the blue eyes. The room noticed, and warmed up accordingly. “I didn’t mind. Well, to be honest, I kind of did, but I wanted you to tell me whatever you felt like sharing. So I didn’t say anything.”

“You,” Michael told him, “are too fucking nice for your own good,” and then, deliberately ignoring James’s expressive rolling-of-eyes in response, went back to the appealing jeans.

James tried to sit up and help, when he flicked open the top button; Michael glared, and stopped all movement in that direction until James lay back down, muttering something about overprotectiveness and maternal instincts. But he was smiling, when Michael checked, and didn’t actually sound annoyed.

“Did you say _maternal_ instincts? Because I’m fairly certain I’m not your mother.”

“Oh, that’s just disturbing, at this particular moment.”

“You brought it up…” He had James mostly unclothed, now, nestled down into the welcoming sheets. Acres of joyously dancing freckles, sparkling like sequins in the soft glow of the light. Skin that tasted like warmth and worn denim and delight. He followed one specific trail of freckles, enchanted, up the line of one thigh. One last scrap of fabric prevented him from finding the ultimate end of the inviting path.

“You can take those off, too. And also your clothes.”

He stopped. Sat up. “James—are you _sure_ —”

“If you say that phrase one more time, I’m not going to be responsible for the outcome. Yes, I’m sure. I’m fine. I love you. You should be naked now. I’d love you even more if you were naked.”

Michael had to laugh, at that wonderfully impatient tone. “Okay.”

He finished getting James naked, first. And then paused to admire the sight, briefly. James, naked, in bed with him. _Fantastic_.

He realized, yanking off his own clothes, that James was observing him with more or less the same expression. And that was even more fantastic: out of all the people in the world, James wanted _him_.

James blushed, again, watching Michael watch him. “You can stop staring at me any time, you know.”

“No. I honestly can’t.”

“You—”

“You’re perfect.”

“I am not. But…I should probably tell you something, though. Before we, um. Go much further, with this.”

“What? Are you—does something hurt? Where?” Had he not noticed an indication of pain, somewhere, somehow? He peeked, as surreptitiously as he could, at the bandage; no signs of blood, at least. And the eyes gazed back at him calmly, without any signs of vertigo or disorientation.

“No! Sorry. It’s not that. And you can stop looking at me like you’re waiting for me to collapse, too; it’s sort of unnerving. It’s only…look, when I said it’d been a while…I meant at least, um, probably ten years. If not more.”

“I’m not waiting for you to— _What_?”

“Not—I didn’t mean I was celibate or anything! I have had sex! I like sex!”

“Oh, good!”

“It’s just been mostly, um, sex with women. I just—I never found anyone, any men, okay, who I wanted—there wasn’t anyone I was comfortable with, all right?”

All at once he had something else to worry about. As if he’d needed more. “But you are—you do want to, right? Now?”

“Michael,” James said, patiently, but with amusement peeking around the corners of those sapphire-labyrinth eyes, “I fell in love with _you_.”

“I love you, too. You know that. You do, right? Know that, I mean?”

James actually laughed, at that question. “Yes. Sometimes I still can’t quite believe it, but yes.”

“You should believe it. Because it’s true.” The comforter, piled up at the end of the bed, was encroaching innocently on their space; he kicked it off, and didn’t care when it hit the floor in a fluffily noiseless heap.

“I do, then. Speaking of doing things…weren’t you about to, earlier?”

“Okay. Yes. Tell me if anything hurts, all right? Here. Or anywhere.” He trailed fingers across the pale stomach, one more time, underscoring the words, checking for any less than encouraging movements or responses. James watched the fingers move, and betrayed absolutely no evidence of any pain at all.

“I will. I promise. But I still think you’re worrying too much.”

“I love you, so I’m allowed.” He replaced the exploratory fingertips with lips, instead, this time, which made James shiver.

“I love you, too. Um…more?”

“Good?”

“Very.”

“Then you’ll probably like this.” He met blue eyes for just a second, and then opened his mouth and ran his tongue over that infinitely attractive proof of arousal, tasting heat, and a hint of early stickiness, and something indefinable that said _James_ to all his senses.

When he moved lower, taking more, feeling the slide of hardness into his throat, James made a sound that could only be described as a startled, and adorable, squeak. Michael paused. Sat up. Found surprised eyes with his. “Everything all right?” Please say yes, he added soundlessly. He had no idea what he’d do, if James said no. Panic, probably. Or implode. Death by frustrated desire, piled on top of terrified concern.

“Yes! Very much yes. I just—I wasn’t expecting you to—”

“You _have_ done this before…”

“I have, yes. I’ve just never, um. Had that particular thing done for me, before, in this situation. I always—no one ever offered to reciprocate.”

“Seriously?” How was that possible? James was…James. Irresistible. Every inch of him. Clearly every other person in the world must be blind. And equally clearly he would have to devote some time to making certain that James knew this.

“You could do it again, maybe? If you want to?” That question, he thought, sounded like equal parts desire and hesitance, self-doubt disguised by the plush texture of that Scottish purr; instead of answering out loud, because he wasn’t quite sure he could, Michael leaned back down and went back to what he’d been doing, except more forcefully this time. He needed to show James just how much he did want to, after all.

James breathed his name. Snapped his hips upward, obviously losing control, when Michael stroked his tongue over a specific spot. So he licked that spot again, and this time, for good measure, dipped his tongue into that throbbing slit, where he could taste James wanting him, already wet with it.

James practically screamed. Michael tried not to feel too proud of himself for that.

But he didn’t want James to come, or at least not yet, not like this. Not for their first time. He wanted more.

He stopped, reluctantly. Sat up again. James made a different, somewhat disappointed, sound, at the interruption; the glowing light splashed warmth across all the freckles, over the sheets, throughout the room, companionably. Even the air offered encouragement, humming with expectance.

Speaking of expectations, James had plainly remembered how to use words again, and was, naturally, busily employing them. “We’re not done, are we? Not that that wasn’t very good. Because it was. You are, I mean. Or—was that all right for you? Did I—was I not supposed to move? When you did that thing? Because I couldn’t really help it and—”

“You’re spectacular.”

“Really?”

“Very. And no, we’re not done. You did say you wanted—” In fact, James _hadn’t_ technically said that. “ _Do_ you want more? Do you want me to…?” He let one finger drift around the base of all that achingly hard arousal, and then further back. Found that little crinkle of muscle, waiting for his touch.

He could _hear_ James holding his breath. He was, too. “Yes? Or no? Or not yet?”

James swallowed, eyes enormous in the amber-shadowed room. Nodded. Then, as if needing to clarify, added, “Yes!” with impressive enthusiasm, and somehow that cracked the wound-up tension into giddy pieces, and they both started laughing, helplessly, stretched out across the disheveled sheets, all wrinkled up and laughing along with them.

“Definitely yes,” James managed to say, grinning, and Michael said, “Oh, thank god,” and James laughed again, bright and clear and silvery as the nighttime air.

“Um. Do you have—I mean, we’re very much going to need—”

“I know. And I think I do. Um…stay here.” He was fairly sure he still had lube, somewhere, in the depths of his suitcase. He’d unpacked everything else, for the most part, since at this point he’d more or less moved into James’s room— _their_ room—but he hadn’t bothered to look for that, since he hadn’t expected to need it. Hadn’t wanted anyone else, except James, and he’d not been planning on sex with James, not yet, not until he was entirely sure that James was all right.

But James _was_ all right, or nearly. And still smiling at him, even if a bit quizzically, since Michael had just left him on the bed in order to excavate the last remaining contents of his luggage.

He spotted the bottle, finally, sitting lazily at the bottom of the bag and clearly not comprehending its own vital importance. And still mostly full, a fact for which he’d be eternally grateful to every single deity ever, later; right now he had other priorities.

He tried to be as gentle as he could, with the first intrusion; James didn’t make a sound, but the eyes went larger than he’d ever seen them, blue and black like the collision of thunderstorms in the night. And for a second he just stopped, spellbound by that sight. Breathed again, finally, when James blinked, eyelashes sweeping down like clouds, and freeing him to move.

He slid that first adventurous finger a bit deeper. Glanced at the eyes. Tried something else.

“Oh _god_ —”

“Ah. You like that?”

“Do that again!”

“That?”

Just a moan, this time. James had lost the ability to form words, apparently. Excellent.

He could feel the tightness relaxing, slowly, around him; more, then. James whispered his name, when the second curious finger joined the first. And then tried to arch his back and push up, against Michael’s hand.

“Don’t be impatient. I’m trying to make this good for you.”

“And I appreciate that, I do, I love you, but can it be good faster?”

He had to laugh. Again. Because James could always make him laugh, even when they were both naked and intimately exposed and about to _be_ intimate, really, for the first time. He’d said spectacular, earlier; he’d been wrong. Because no words could be right, because there just weren’t sufficient adjectives in the universe for everything he felt, looking at James, at that second. The universe might have to invent some new ones.

He eased in a third finger, gently, opening James up wider around him. James started panting, softly, at that one, eyes shut.

“Still okay?”

“Yes…”

“Can you look at me?”

James licked his lips, and Michael wanted to kiss him. And then remembered, suddenly, astonished, that he _could_ ; and so he leaned over and tasted that glistening skin with his own tongue. James kissed back, welcoming the exploration, letting him discover every corner of that delicious mouth, and smiling, Michael realized. He could feel the happiness, in the curve of lips against his own. And then, as requested, James opened his eyes, blue like the endless night sky, beyond the window.

“I love you,” Michael said, quietly, to those eyes, and James smiled again. And then bit his lip, and looked away.

“What? What is it? Did I—”

“No, I’m fine, I just…” James hesitated; the eyes flickered up to his, and then away, over towards the closest harmless lamp. “You have done this, um, quite a lot, and I’m not—I haven’t—I’m sorry if it isn’t amazing. For you.”

“What?” At least the shock in his voice got James to stare at him. Good. “You—no. Just…no. You _are_ amazing. And this is—it’s a first time for me, too, you know.”

“But you—”

“It’s the first time I’ve ever done this with you. And I love you so fucking much, and I want it to be perfect, and I never want to hurt you, and this, with you, this is already better than anything else ever has been. We could stop right now and it would still be better. And I love you. Clear?”

“Oh,” James breathed, almost inaudible, word highlighted by the gleam of warm lamplight over skin. “Yes. You—yes. I love you, too. All right. So…”

“So…more?”

“Please.”

“Okay. I—Wait!” He dove across the bed. Prayed that he still had at least one condom somewhere in that bag, too. Which indeed proved to be the case. Only two, though. Damn. Obviously he’d have to do some shopping. But that’d be enough, for now.

Surprise popped up to join the smile, when James realized what he was holding. “You—”

“I think it should be fine. As far as I know we should be fine. But I haven’t exactly—I mean, you know I’ve—I’ll go in and make sure. As soon as possible.” Tomorrow, if he could manage that. “Until then, though, is this okay? Just for now?”

“Of course. I trust you, though.”

“I know. But…just in case.”

“All right, then. And also I love you.”

“And I love you.”

He settled into position, carefully. Took a breath. Looked at James looking at him, eyes wide with eagerness and enthusiasm and want, under the gleaming golden light. Not reluctant. Not in pain.

So he pushed forward, and heard James gasp. But that was a sound of pleasure, he thought, not anything else, and when he moved again James moaned and moved with him. “That—you—Michael—”

“Good?”

“Yes—!”

He did try to be careful. Tried to make himself remember that it’d only been a week, that James, whatever he said, was still wounded, under the uncomplaining bandages that clung to smooth skin. But when James sighed, a brush of air against his shoulder, and slick muscles trembled and parted for him, he couldn’t stop himself from pushing deeper, harder, sinking into all that beckoning heat.

James whispered his name again, sounding astonished; he watched those lakewater eyes blink twice, eyelashes tangling together like long-legged and shadowy creatures under all the light, but they met his own, after.

“Still good?”

“Yes…can I have a second, though? Sorry. You’re kind of…large.”

“Of course. Anything.” He slid a hand between their bodies, and found reassuring evidence that, yes, James still wanted this. Wanted him.

James let out an involuntary noise, almost a whimper, at the touch. Interesting, Michael thought, and did it again, stroking a little more firmly this time, testing different speeds, angles, pressure. Memorizing all the movements that made James shiver, or gasp, or jerk those hips up in reply.

Abruptly he felt hands on his skin, too; James’s fingers, pressing into his hips, tugging him forward. Asking for more. He hadn’t even noticed the hands move.

“Are you—”

“If that question is what I think it is, I swear to god I’m going to hit you with a pillow.”

“Do you always have such violent tendencies during sex? I’d just like to know. For the future.”

 “There’s not going to be much future if you don’t do something _now_.”

“Something like this?”

“Yes!”

“More?”

“ _Yes_.”

“Okay.” When he inched forward again, James arched up against him, and breathed, “Michael,” and he spared a thought to be glad he’d found the condom, because he could feel James all around him, tight and wet and yielding to his penetration, and if he hadn’t had that thin barricade between himself and all that sensation, everything might’ve ended right then.

James tried to move with him, hips lifting to match his, and he wanted that, he did, so badly he thought he might explode with it, but he felt the rasp of fabric, a touch that wasn’t skin, across his stomach when they met, and he stopped. Set fingers, a bit sticky with all the lube, on the constellation of gilded freckles next to that lurking bandage. James went still, despite the lightness of the touch, eyes asking the question.

“I don’t want you to move. Even if you want to. I can’t—we probably shouldn’t be doing this anyway, you know. Not this soon.”

James very obviously wanted to argue—Michael could see it in his face, in the stubborn blueness of those eyes—but, after a second, just nodded.

“Fine. I love you.”

“I love you, too. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Next time I’m going to have plans, for you.”

“I like the idea of you having plans. _After_ you don’t have stitches holding your stomach together.”

“That’s not exactly the most seductive thing you could’ve said, right now.”

“Oh, sorry. Would you prefer I go back to doing things, instead?” He pulled back, almost all the way. Saw James open his mouth, all indignant impatience. Then slid back in, one swift thrust. Heard James gasp, breathless, with the speed of it.

“Better?”

“I—you—yes. You. Yes. More?”

Apparently he’d inadvertently discovered something that could make James forget how to make sentences. Michael hadn’t thought that that was possible, but instantly resolved, looking at those shining blue eyes, to try to do it again. As often as he could.

More. He left that hand on the curve of those hips, holding James in place, keeping him still, and moved, making them both quiver with it. James looked at the hand, and then up at him, and licked those lips one last time, and smiled, and the implications of _that_ expression made the last rational pieces of his brain short-circuit. Thank god they had all those promised next times, for the future; he thought he might need to see that expression again, forever.

And that idea, _James_ and _forever_ and _his_ , that was it, that was everything, except he had to make James come first, had to make it good, so he used the other hand, too, found all the hardness, slippery with need and desire, and heard the resulting tiny groan. “Please…”

“You,” Michael whispered back, “you, James, come for me,” and James gasped again and shuddered beneath him, wet heat pulsing out over his hand, their skin, the sparkling freckles.

And he had meant to move, finally, to let himself have his own release, but instead found himself just watching, awestruck, as James fell apart in ecstasy. For him.

Of their own volition, his hips pushed forward, deeper, and James gave a little desperate cry, and Michael found himself whispering again, little fragments, _I love you_ and _beautiful_ and _so fucking_ _perfect_ , and when he thrust one more time, hitting the spot that made James moan his name, almost a sob now, all the heat tightened around him, and then the world went white and electric and unendingly brilliant.

After several uncounted seconds, the thought occurred, vaguely, that he should move, because he was probably too heavy for James anyway, and even more so right now. He opened his eyes, with some effort, and realized that James was smiling at him, cheerfully exhausted.

“So…are you always the talkative one, during sex?”

“No, actually. Never. Only with you.” It was true. He hadn’t expected that; the words had just…been there.

“Really?”

“Really.” He paused, studying the oceanic eyes; James didn’t seem to be in pain, at all, but was almost certainly still feeling the lingering euphoric glow, and wouldn’t notice. He was feeling all of that too, but the spiky needles of concern were poking their way back in, as well, persistently, next to the contentment.

When he slid out, gingerly, James breathed in, a nearly unnoticeable hiss of air in the languid aftermath. Michael noticed, though. “Still all right?”

“Um…yes.”

“Are you lying to me?”

“No. Or not on purpose. Just…kind of sensitive. There. From you. Not anything else. I promise.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oh, god,” James said, “I really am going to have to hit you with a pillow,” and then reached out and pulled Michael back down beside him, into the stoic embrace of the much-abused sheets. “I’m wonderful. And you’re wonderful. And I love you.”

“I love you, too.” He wrapped both arms around James, who curled up more closely against him, and put his head on Michael’s shoulder. That couldn’t be very restful; he knew there wasn’t exactly much in the way of pillowy comfort, there. But James didn’t seem to care.

He could feel the quiet thunder of that heartbeat, matching his own; could feel the scrape of one short and muscular leg, finding its way between his, twining them together. He traced fingers along James’s back, in the lamplight; he couldn’t quite see all the freckles, but he knew they were there. And he’d have a lifetime to learn their locations.

He wanted to touch other places, that lurking scrap of fabric that sat there proclaiming a reminder of wounded flesh, or the frail skin over that left temple, so easily bruised. But he was afraid that James, despite all the words, had to be more than only tired, now, and he couldn’t bring himself to do anything that could lead to the smallest bit of pain. That luxurious voice hadn’t ventured any words in a while, and the eyes were closed, long eyelashes nestling themselves down over pale skin; and Michael caught himself listening to each steady breath, waiting for the next one, and the one after that.

Overreacting, he knew. But he still couldn’t make himself stop.

But James evidently hadn’t been joking, earlier, about the telepathic powers, because, without opening his eyes, he picked up Michael’s hand, and brought it up next to his face. Kissed each finger, an openmouthed tiny breath of air, and then turned his head enough to let Michael hold him, exactly where he’d been wanting to, trying to cover up the memory of too-vivid injuries with his own hand.

“Mmm. You feel all…comfortable.”

“You—is this—you don’t have a headache, do you? Or anything?”

“No. I just wanted you to touch me. Is that okay?”

“Of course.” Individual strands of gleeful hair had wound themselves around his fingers, now, holding them in place with shades of copper and oak. And Michael never wanted to move again.

“You know, I think I’m not sorry about the mistletoe, after all. Considering the result.”

“I think I love you and your unnatural obsession with the mistletoe.”

“It’s not unnatural! It’s Christmas! Well, almost. In a week.”

“And a day.”

“And a day. And I do still need to figure out what you want.”

“I thought I just showed you.”

“Besides that! You can have that anyway. You can have me always. But—”

“All right, then. I want you. I want you to spend Christmas with me.”

“Of course I—”

“ _Every_ Christmas.”

“I—are you saying—what are you asking? Exactly?”

“I…think I’m asking you to marry me.”

“You _think_?” James was half-laughing, he thought, and half something else that he couldn’t decipher. Pure shock? Excitement? Displeasure at the phrasing? He honestly didn’t know. But he did know that he meant it. Had known, as soon as he said the words. Knew it the way he’d never known anything else: truth like the deepest golden center of the world.

“Yes. I am. I’m asking you, James McAvoy, to marry me. Right now. Because you like mistletoe, and coffee, and holidays. Because you forget your chapstick every single morning, and because you’re my best friend, the person I want to spend every Christmas with, and every day, and you make me happy, all the time. And I could have fucking lost you once already, and I can’t lose you. Not ever. Because I do want you, forever. Because I love you. And I’ll carry around extra chapstick for the rest of our lives, I promise, and I’ll try to make you happy, too, and I know this probably isn’t how you want to be asked, and it’s too soon to ask you anyway, and we’re both naked and I don’t even have a ring for you, I’m sorry, I should’ve—you don’t have to answer yet, I can wait, just tell me you might think about it, maybe, sometime—”

“Yes.”

“…what?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Seriously, twice wasn’t enough?” James was definitely laughing, now. “Yes. Completely yes. Because of the chapstick. And the way you’re looking at me.”

“You will?”

“Yes! I love you, always, and yes, I’ll marry you. Tomorrow, if you want. Or whenever you want. Do you want me to keep saying it? Or can I kiss you instead?”

He was starting to believe it, now. James had said yes. That yes was real. Incredible, unfathomable, exhilarating, and real. So he answered that last question, with the only conceivable reply. And kissed James one more time, in the middle of all the renewed laughter, in the echo of both of their voices, saying yes.


End file.
